” “We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice. He took about five minutes. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. She hit the villain with it. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed.
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